Longe das planícies fúnebres onde contra o inverno cultivam grãos suas raízes ténues e fúteis frente ao frio iminente e a foice nas mãos tragei o ar inspirador do mar de tudo nascente.

Foi longe das planícies inmensuráveis as léguas ou as horas, os desejos… entre aquele passado e este presente quantas guerras quantas mortes acompanhando tréguas quantos enterros e flores de caixão quantas orações de despedida batizando vidas desviadas ou vias novas a chamar.

That’s why I sang these songs: the art of writing down my name might call up hers or, reaching the true cause of me (a reason? a meaning?), might find a home, or build one that is why I sang

In evening when light fades you feel it, or in the night where nothing shines but stars that gleam from the far end of the thinnest thread: those strands that catch the corner of your eye and rouse your sounds, widen your smile so song is woven on the melody of her curve, harmony in the curl and moisture of her lips; that is where I sang; and where our voices met we settled in, the sunlight came so every seed we planted surged and opened leaves in sweet upswelling fountain-spilling flowers, fruit, future as though I sang them into life

He thought that what he made would decorate his days; instead (a rule of thumb) it was who he had become.

He thought: “The house I build will garner summer’s rays, and I’ll be warm when summer-comfort wanes”; instead, it was the one who shared his bed, how long she stayed.

He thought and thought. But what the days that passed him taught was far from his imagination, caught in the fingers of his outstretched heart.

Several years ago I was “improving” my photo collection, which had become a wobbling tower of Kodachrome, balanced precariously and in no particular order in a hidden corner of my closet. Every time I saw it, I felt a vague intolerance; and each time I saw it, I felt that intolerance grow, until finally the intolerance was itself intolerable, and I furiously shoveled the concealing junk out of the way, and hooked those boxes and stacks out into the middle of my bedroom floor.

It’s not who she is that begs the lyric; not what he wants that’s the melody’s thread. Instead: when something stirs and merges one and one; makes failing math, is short two by a half; when boundaries gently blur; when bodies move without one saying stay, one saying go…

There is Music’s spring, if not the spring of everything.

Or, what I mean: it’s where the spirits meet that fuels the fire; it’s where they part that puts it out.

I turned to face the evening       she was there her arms a circle       cool November: mist the light, a fallen curtain       and her hair a silken flicker turned        to mask her face all given, all received       in evening’s arms we fell, we turned the shawl       November’s mist to circled warmth       the lightest curtain furled til darkness fell       on everything, and gave November back to us       returned our names a circle cannot end       November can

Rue - Mark Schultz

O coração baía aberto ao maré as águas vêm as águas vão prá onde eu não sei

Chegam de tempestade ao suspiro elas vão escrevem nomes na areia que as ondas apagarão

… instrumental

Correnteza agridoce pôs tesouros à beira-mar que beleza me traz sorriso despedida me faz chorar

Correnteza agridoce faz tesouros aterrisar que beleza ao alcance dos olhos mas nas mãos é que nem luar

Beleza ao alcance dos olhos desagua das mãos que nem luar

Com idade se ama mais

Arriving at the far end of the day
the passengers who had not stepped from the train
composed their books and closed their eyes
and sighed: we have arrived.

as quickly as our sight is shuttered
the blank horizon of the mind is lit
as though a sky inside, through sudden sunset
brightens with those quiet constellations
that seed the canopy of inner night

We survived the challenges of day
- those who, lost in thought, collided
- or, lost in fear or sickness, were derailed
and reassure ourselves that we were right
in all we did: we have arrived.

The inuksuit born of the weight in our hands as stone after stone they choose to stand their lives take form in the foundry of the heart they rise and arise on the bank of the fjord to wait in the wind for the one who returns they speak without speaking but when? but when? lighthouse without light that shines on the bay poem without words unwritten by hand sentinel to a moment that refuses death the spirit of the stone leans toward the south the spirit of my stone will not close its eyes as some leave their hearts and new stones arise our village of inuksuit grows and subsides they reach toward the sun and they bow to the tide.	Inuksuit sont nés du poids dans les mains pierre en pierre ils choisissent de se lever leurs vies en formant dans la fonderie d’un coeur ils se lèvent et se réveillent à la rive du fjord à attendre dans le vent pour lequel qui revient ils parlent sans parler -- mais lorsque? -- lorsque? un phare sans lumière que illumine la baie poème sans mots pas écrit à main sentinelle d’un moment que refuse de mourrir l’esprit de la pierre penche vers le sur l’esprit de ma pierre ne ferme pas ses yeux comme quelque-uns lèguent ses coeurs et pierres nouvelles se lèvent notre village de inuksuit s’agrande et diminue ils atteignent au soleil et s’inclinent aux marées.

Some inuksuit were used by those hunting caribous, when the caribous were coming the young ones were fed milk not to make noise. The land without trees was called The Place for Feeding by the elders.

Many inuksuit together are called nalluni. We placed nalluni where we would want the caribous to swim before they reach the end of the lake or reach the other side.

Almost all the land had inuksuit; all of them were useful. Some inuksuit were on the way where caribou herds were walking, beside lakes or at the end of big lakes.

When they start to swim, we will go to them by kayak. Before they reach the shore, they will be hunted with harpoon (kapuutinut) This was the way to get many caribous. In the summer the skin and the fur were good and used for clothes. The meat was buried underground, that way it would be the food for the winter, it was like that in the past.

Some inuksuit were there for people not to get lost when they were moving around; for example, inuksuit were followed to go to a lake or anywhere.

On lakes where there are fish, there are rocks who point to the lake. The two rocks are on top of the flat rock point to the fishing whole. We should try to fish where it is pointing. But we don’t even notice it because we don’t know what our ancestors did. Back then they built these pointers to a lake where there is fish. We never worry about them, we just hunt when we are camping.

All the big places have an inuksuit. We use them to recognize where we are. Even to this day, they are used. Inuksuit building was taken seriously by our ancestors, they were built to be used. If there were no inuksuit, many people would get lost, especially in the blizzard. When we see an inuksuit we are thankful and we feel more confident.